Oasis

Several times this week I have stared at this yellow pad, pen in hand, patiently awaiting inspiration only to move on to do something else. After eighteen months of regular entries, it feels bad to go a week without a new post to this blog.

True to form, my body is split with pros and cons. I am aware of a compulsion to account for my production, a need to sum up, at the end of the day, what has been done and judge if I deserve the rest on a late evening, or do I just sleep to re-energize for a run farther and faster in the morning.

In my I-group the other night, a man who parallels much of my transformational story admitted to a similar struggle these last weeks. His own production is way off, accountability to himself is challenged. In the process of feeling the deeper emotions behind this lull, he resorted to a primal scream and collapsing on the floor, safe and nurtured by the men around him to let go for a few precious moments the burden of the responsibilities and self-expectations he dutifully shoulders.

As witness to his process, I recognized so much of myself and felt relief, a kind of permission, that I too could rest and rejuvenate. We talked about the cycle of creativity that generates so much, but needs a certain period of inactivity to allow for the next set of ideas to properly percolate. One cannot just turn out material ad infinitum without time to settle inwards to discover new light behind old shadows.

So I have relaxed a bit, awoken several mornings without considering the next words or rushing (even bothering at all) to check the reader stats. My guitars have largely stayed in their cases, and if playing at all, I plunk a few piano keys, hearing the same old songs differently.

Curiously, there is a distinct (and sobering) familiarity to some of this. The lack of money to put gas in the car has forced me to focus on a remodeling project, fingers absorbing splinters instead of aching with scribbles. Instead of leisurely tea and lingering over words, I jump into scruffy clothes and transform a living space. Nights and weekends, I have been painting the interiors of a friend, talking and talking, re-absorbing female energy almost as if in a relationship again.

There has been plenty of production, but more like those many years so recently passed, I am quick to observe, when the realities of living life distracted and denied the urgency to write and sing about it all. So many years ago, I used carpentry as a way to pay bills while I got my creative work going, and it eventually consumed me. No wonder in these last months I have felt a physical revulsion to taking my hammer in hand. Once again, my own journal has grown full of scribbles in these days, ramblings and half-thoughts too obtuse and personal to show well here, but this time they will not be burned out of fear and shame that they were written at all.

Lessons have been learned. Life can be lived differently once we understand ourselves a little better. Since they may be such a part of our nature, we can dabble our toes into some of the same old behaviors with more clarity and purpose, but ever vigilant and understanding , modify ourselves at the first signs of giving over completely and losing ourselves.

At the very least, my car is grateful for the gas.

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No Money on Trees

A friend and I bantered the other day about the fact that what lies in our back pocket is more important than the size of what we hide in the front of our pants. We both adore women in general and ones in particular, and even though it was all in clever jest, there rang a note of exasperated truth.

In this day and age when women can hold their own, or even better us financially, these light-hearted pokes described our own confused insecurities more than the fear of any actual judgment from the opposite sex. There is no doubt that—like having a car door opened—women can feel loved when their man picks up the check, but their independence has made it more of a gift than an expectation or demand.

The hunter/gathering blood still courses boldly through us men, however, who whip out our cards like so many swords of old, establishing our territory. With every tip to the bill, there is a note of confidence, a swagger, a punctuating statement that we are okay, holding our own in the world, and able to give that gift to the woman in our focus.

Last week, it was fascinating to me (only in retrospect) to start out with only twenty dollars in my pocket, nothing in the bank, and no prospect of any more arriving like cavalry before the weekend. Survival required careful attention, prudent mileage, and lots of peanut butter and jelly.

No consolation was found in reminding myself this poverty was a direct result of the choice to pursue creativity over carpentry. I accepted the challenge of it soberly last week, not happily, and vowed that I must do things differently to not be here again. My mood—full of bright equanimity on the surface—grew as bleak as the rainy day outside.

No matter the source of the dollars that enliven my bank account, my mood often reflects the balance: forlorn and unproductive when empty; bold, brave and resourceful when there is money to back it up. It is easier to write and play music happily when the financial help from my father obscures the fact that at 55, I have to run to him each month for help. Once depleted, it takes days to conjure the energy to ask for more, but as soon as it is deposited, my production and confidence are fueled like gas in a car.

The quality and success of the work is secondary to the sheer fact that I am working at all. Far better, I say, than lying comatose on the sofa, staring at soundless walls and blank pages, I can accept this help with the justification that I am pursuing my passion. Never mind that no editor has personally written encouragement of any kind when returning a manuscript (my mark of success 25 years ago), I write and submit, believing that alone is success enough at this nascent point of my revised career.

When the account is empty, however, no amount of fancy words or moving music can help to soften the pain. Hours of productive music or the pile of the next submissions packaged to mail do not alleviate my soul. The urgency to express is diverted to despair. I pace the small rooms too weary to find optimism. My heart aches with fear and worry, inertia of the worst kind. The fear of plummeting further awakes the man who seeks solutions.

And since there is a woman I would like to take to dinner, I evaluate the balance of production, results, energy and money, deciding that some carpentry is not at all a bad thing compared to the threat to my self-esteem, sitting alone in my room, continuing to ask for help from my father at the end of his life, when editors are not accepting my creative efforts. Perhaps when I truly earn the time to write, the right words will flow to catch their attention.

In the meantime, I feed my soul with companionship of a dear kind in daily life, sharing the sunset over a wonderful dinner on a back porch, enjoying the mix of ache and satisfaction of another door hung and painted, taking solace that after a week of silence and frustration, I am finally able to contribute a little something to this blog as well.

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At the Bitter End it's not so bitter

With plenty of time to spare, my son and I arrived in New York City, daunted and excited by the heat, traffic and cavernous setting of the landscape. Easily, we found Bleeker Street and wandered along in the redster, recognizing that full of shops and restaurants, it felt much like Burlington's Church Street, but much,much longer.

At sight of the Bitter End's blue awning, so small in presence, so large in reputation, my throat clutched and I worried I was a most foolish man. Just as quickly, excitement took over and we felt giddy in the reality of playing on that stage. Finding a parking spot just a few blocks farther down, we raced back to put our foot at the door.



Really way too early by several hours, we set out to explore, but settled almost immediately at a table just two doors down for lemonade and to get oriented to the big city life. A British league soccer tame was just beginning on TV and a few minutes later a man (also from the UK) marched in with a guitar to play. We needed to go nowhere else, and figured this was all meant to be.

James Maddock kept us entertained with song and gave me a lot of information on playing music in the city. The soccer match kept my mind off the nerves tingling in my throat and fingers. A short walk in either direction introduced me to other well-known stages.

At 6:30, I was swept into the motion of the event, meeting, greeting and preparing myself. The famous brickwall that has been background to so many big names looked just like any other brickwall with a grand piano and a stack of monitors and speakers before it. They gave us a green room (covered in graffiti) to tune up and relax, although there were no chairs and it was filled with cardboard and an ice machine that clattered constantly with a shocking crash, ice chips in melted puddles on the floor.

My entrepreneurial roadie son set up a little table with CD's for sale displayed neatly, and ordered another OJ and 7up, pretending it was alcohol. We often joke about the deadbeat dad influence I have on him, taking him to bars to shoot pool and watch football or listen to music. Now, i have put him to honest work.

The time of the set vanished quickly even as I tried to linger in the moment and relish the sweet sound of the PA system. It was easy to relax and dance when my voice and guitar were reflected back so gently and cleanly, as if no one else were talking in the room. Such a long way I have come in a short time since finally rejecting my former partner's embarrassment that I might go to a party with my guitar. This was just way too fun and others seemed to like it too.



Afterwards, my energy was both ecstatic and n umb, brilliant and subdued as the pulse of the evening and the good music wore on. It was also a reunion with a college roommate and formerguitar partner and his wife, another dear friend, so we soon turned the corner to a wonderful dinner al fresco. The whine flowed with stories new and old, the evening cooled as the waiters entertained. Our cosmopolitan experience seduced us into wanting many more.

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Roads Taken

Full of ice cream, mango and a break-a-leg bon voyage from a good friend, my son and I redstered into the sunset, on our way at last to play music in the Big City, may show at the Bitter End. Happily, traffic on this holiday weekend was not flowing our way, so we cruised along in an easy gear with reggae soaring.

A road trip feels like one of our best activities together. We wander with purpose, redefining adventure, relaxed in our rhythm, banter bouncing between us, comfortable in our shared quiet and exuberance. Currently we have our favorite tunes, live sets of two rousing bands with vocals that compel us both to join in with full harmonies at the top of our lungs.

It astounds me to realize on our next trip, he will be able to help me with the actual driving, his grown hands on the wheel. Even more so, his voice has found the confidence that, if he wanted, he would be welcomed on stage to sing with me.

Through the late night darkness, we covered the miles with bits of conversations about romance and relationship, parents and children, the dreams that have been celebrated or dashed. The final hour he slept and I faught to stay awake, intoxicated with joy and dread for what lies ahead.

Having made it by the middle of the night, we stumbled into his apartment with laughter that we don’t need to be very quiet since my dad sleeps without his hearing aide, but we whispered anyway, exhausted adrenalin painting it all surreal. I poked around my father’s little apartment, identifying all of the precious pieces that once defined our anchoring home, but seem only transient here.

In the morning, I recognized my little show-and-tell self in my father as he represented his simple life to me in the tiny details of a fragile man nearly blind and deaf trying to keep his way. Simple tasks like unpackaging a new mouse for his computer, or changing a light bulb, are piled up and waiting for help when his children come to visit. The cabinet is empty, but he has what he eats exactly where he can find it, and carefully scribbles what is missing on the list for his weekly travel to the store.

His age, his weary aspect, his frailty are the constant subject at hand, yet a new sculpture of an old couple resting on their bench sits modestly in process. An alabaster whale has revealed itself on the cushioned (against a fall) coffee table and another larger block of stone awaits his definition on the terrace outside. He regularly checks his email and asks questions about posting messages to his facebook account. A man who talks so readily about impending death, praying it will take him swiftly, still living vitally.

My mother has lived in the ether of Alzheimer’s for some time now, having long lost her ability to pray for anything at all, sitting in silence or delighted by some shadow we cannot see. The pain of witnessing such a vacuum in someone once so robust with wisdom is daunting. Were I to live nearby like my sisters, I could understand my visits might be fewer and fewer, but living far away, I packed several into a small day like my suitcase over-flowing.

She sits in her wheel chair, propped with a pillow, surrounded by others in their chairs, oases of souls in a wilderness of lost minds. In her own room, I brought out my guitar to her wondering eyes, but the pluck of first strings opened them wide with amazement and she shivered with remembrance of things she cannot articulate.

At first, shy and tentative to play for my estranged mother, respectful of the institution where she now lies, I played quietly, fingered notes too deep for words. No matter the shell, however, I soon realized this is my mother, the woman who always listened with rapture and critiqued with honesty, celebrating my achievements and guiding disasters into learning opportunities, consoling my broken hearts. Given the burst of creativity that ignites my living these days, I owed her no less than the true story of my being, whether she could hear me or not.

Tears enveloping my words, I sang to her of perpetual motion and dances in the rain, broken mirrors and the commitment to this new life of passion that I knew she had always wanted for me. Voice scratched with emotion, I told her of the stories I am writing, the tale I tell in this blog, and the project for peace that would, if she could understand me, make her so proud. None of this would be happening without steadfast encouragement she gave me through all of those many years before.

A glimmer of her soul came to the surface as the music unfolded, the heart-splitiing gnashing of her teeth sub-sided slightly as her lips tried to form the words to the folk songs she had taught us on camping trips and in long lines to an artful event, or around the marble table on mornings of waffles and posing for my dad’s portraits.

For an instant, her eyes shimmered and danced, her body shivered with a delight so beautiful. Our tears mingled in an embrace, even as she just as quickly slipped away into that darkness again, leaving her only son alone, but OK.

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